


Kingdom of Decay

by PyschoticBiotic



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Horror, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-10-24 17:26:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17708546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyschoticBiotic/pseuds/PyschoticBiotic
Summary: Daughter of both destiny and disgrace, Amaranthe has had the weight of the entire Elven kingdom upon her shoulders all her young life. But when she finds herself in the damned and decaying lands of Barovia ruled by a tyrannical vampire, she faces her greatest challenge yet…





	1. Of Monsters and Men

Small droplets of blood slide off the low-hanging leaves, falling into the soil with a subdued, wet thud, releasing the metallic stench of blood. Theodrin stalks through the underbrush, chasing the trail of red that eventually leads him to his quarry: a creature that is a crossbred abomination of man and beast, bipedal in structure with overtly long limbs coated in coarse, thick fur. Triangular ears sit atop its head, which in place of a mouth holds a canine-like snout uttering bestial growls as Theodrin corners it. The claw-tipped hand clutching its wound tightens its grip around it as it hunches defensively over itself.

‘What will it be? Will you die with your last shreds of dignity, or as wretched at the beast you have become?’

Its jaws open to unleash a scream that spooks flocks of birds into flight. Theodrin grins as he unsheathes his blade with a flourish, cutting it across his wrist to wreathe the metal in shards of ice.

‘Like a beast it is, then.’

*

The doors to the courtroom swing open. Theodrin walks in with a swagger to his step, caked in a fine layer of sweat and dirt from his hunt, holding in his hands the severed head of his kill. Courtiers gasp and eagerly part to let him pass. Narcissa rises from her perch atop the throne fixing him with a look of contempt. Theodrin feels his teeth grind together as he bows his head to his younger sister and her bastard daughter.

‘Narcissa…’

‘You Grace.’ Alestir corrects.

His teeth grind together even harder. To think a human nobody would order him how to address his own family. Nevertheless, he maintains his calm facade as he straightens to look his sister, nay, the Queen, in the eye as he throws the beasts head at her feet. Shocked gasps and murmurs ripple through the crowd. The bastard turns her head with a shudder.

Narcissa’s lips curl in disgust. ‘What manner of creature is this?’

‘A lycan, or werewolf to the laymen. A creature that can masquerade as man to hide its monstrous form, in which it has the strength to rend limbs from their sockets and talons capable of tearing through skin, flesh and bone. It is said only a bit is needed to transfer the disease. Likely there are more hiding in the forests, or even in the towns, right under our very noses.’

People in the crowd cry aloud in horror. Women fan their faces to fend off fainting.

‘And you think it is suitable to bring its severed head into my court, in front of my people–my daughter!’ Narissa’s trembling hands gesture to the young girl, her head still tilted away from the scene.

‘She has to grow a spine at some point, my dear sister. One day she will be the one taking up the sword to protect these lands.’

‘No, the sons fight. The daughters rule.’ 

Theodrin spreads his arms and glances about the room. ‘Forgive me your Grace, but where is your son?’

‘Out! All of you out!’

The courtiers quickly scramble to hasten out of the room, carrying their mortified whispers with them as they go.

‘You as well, Amaranthe, Alestir.’

With far much more reluctance, the little Princess stands up from her throne. She pauses as she reaches Theodrin to glower up at him. He always hated her appearance–the dark hair and purple eyes of her human father butchering the sharp angular Darcelle features. She wasn’t right, her ears too round for elven society yet too pointy to pass as human. When Theodrin looks at her, all he sees is a crossbreed, a mongrel. An abomination.

Alestir places a hand on her shoulder and steers her out, hardly sparing his brother-in-law a glance as he passes. Theodrin for one is glad to see the back of them. He just thinks it a shame their departure is not permanent.

He turns his face towards his sister only for it to be snapped back again to the side when she delivers a hard slap to his cheek. A thousand pins tingle in his skin under the force of the blow. Narcissa’s entire frame trembles, her face beet red. The hand she used to slap him now points at his face with accusation.

‘You will never storm into my court again, make a spectacle and then humiliate me in front of my people, nor presume to tell me how to raise my daughter! Do you understand? I am not just your sister, I am also your Queen! Remember your place.’

‘And remember who hunts down those monsters from the tales your people use to put their children to bed, who you fear lurk in the shadows of these ivory towers you stand in, so haughty, so righteous, so entitled. I might err one day, my sword slip from my grasp, and one such creature may find its way into your hallowed halls.’

Narcissa steps toe to toe with him. Equal in height, her glare meets his, her emerald eyes practically wreathed in the flames of her ire.

‘Is that a threat, Theodrin?’

‘Of course not, sister. That would be treason. I would never even dream of such a thing.’

‘Get. Out.’

He stiffly bows before he takes his leave. Theodrin knows he has already crossed one too many a line this day. As much as he enjoyed irritating his sister, he very much liked the position his head currently held atop his shoulders.

As he exits the palace, he sees his niece sat by the fountain, a book between her hands. He strides over and plucks the red leather-bound tome from her grip. She makes a grab for it but Theodrin stands a foot taller than her, and he holds it out of her reach as he angles to cover to read its title written in obnoxious golden cursive.

‘ “Of Men and Monsters”?’ Intrigued, he flicks through the pages and sees it is purely fantastical drivel. Romanticised tales of armoured knights rescuing fair maidens from fearsome dragons. He scoffs and flings the book over her shoulder into the fountain water. ‘Here I thought you were making a headstart in studying for your inevitable induction into our order. And yet you disappoint me again. It’s all you live to do, isn’t it?’

Amaranthe isn’t paying him any heed. Her back is turned to him as she drags the ruined dregs of her book from the water.

‘Are you listening to me, bastard?’ he snarls, grabbing her shoulder.

With a cry, she pivots and slams the wet book square into his face with far more strength than he could have anticipated. He feels his nose crumple with a wet crunch, chased by the overwhelming dull ache that slowly consumes his face like a fire sweeping across a dehydrated forest. It leaves him stunned for a few seconds as the pain blackens out his vision. He resurfaces from the abyss with a deep breath, hoping the Gods lend him the will he needs to stay his hand that is already inching towards the pommel of his blade. 

‘That makes two Darcelle women that have hit me today. Two too many, I must say.’ He swipes at the blood dribbling from his ruptured nostrils. He admits it was a good hit, and a more gutsy move than he expected from her, but the problem still remained a bastard raised a hand at someone of legitimate lineage--to Theodrin of all people! The one people should be bowing and grovelling to as thanks for lengthening their miserable little lives.

Theodrin removes his hand from his blade, raises it over his shoulder.

‘Here, bastard, treat this as your first lesson from the Blood Hunters. Never raise your hand to your betters!

Another hand snags his wrist as he strikes down. Looking over his shoulder, he is greeted by the familiar, unwelcome visage of Addenus Killglave, a human man with a full head of long red hair and a well-kempt beard. He is young, probably only seen five more winters than Alestir, but well-respected in their order and quickly climbing the ranks, adding more insult to this injury.

‘If that is an ideal you live by, then pray tell me why you are raising your hand to Princess Amaranthe?’

Theodrin wrenches his arm free, and straightens out his coat. ‘What?’

‘You said never raise your hands to your betters but I believe that’s precisely what you just did.’

Theodrin sputters, almost choking on his words. ‘She…she’s a bastard!’

‘Aye, but a royal one at that. Not to mention that the wee girl has hardly seen ten winters. Our order doesn’t condone beating children.’

Theodrin feels the unwelcome bite of anger and shame. Addenus’s stiflingly calm nature only serves to exacerbate his foul mood as the order elder regards him coolly, waiting for the next move. A fast friend to Alestir, Theodrin knows Addenus would rebut any further words–he is in league with the lot of them.

‘Get back to the order, Theo. We’ll speak more of this when I return.’

‘Glady,’ Theodrin hisses as he turns on his heel and marches out through the open portcullis.


	2. The Call to Destiny

Addenus lets out a sigh as Theodrin shoulders past him without a shred of politeness or dignity. But he lets him go, more concerned with the young Princess cautiously eyeing him.  
‘Are you alright?’ he asks.  
She shrinks back, clutching the sodden book to her chest defensively.  
Addenus retreats a step. ‘Apologies, Princess. I suppose you don’t remember me, do you? I remember last I saw you you were still about yay high.’ He stoops down and holds a hand about a foot and a half of the ground, wryly smiling at the memory it conjures. ‘Tottering about the palace in a pink dress with dragon wings. Your mother said you couldn’t decide what you wanted to be more--a princess or a dragon.’  
Amara visibly slackens her hunched stance but doesn’t crack a smile or speak. After the brutish displays of Theodrin he hardly blames her.  
He holds out a hand. ‘Addenus Killglave. Family friend and senior hunter to that tosspot.’ He points over his shoulder to where Theodrin fled off to. ‘It’s nice to meet you again.’  
Finally he earns a smile, just a slight upturn of the corners of her lips, but she doesn’t take his hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you.’  
‘Would you do me the honour of escorting me to your parents, and tell me how good it felt to break your Uncle’s nose?’  
Addenus realises his mistake when the horror fills her eyes. She troubles her lower lip with her teeth. ‘Oh, I’m in trouble…’  
‘Knowing your dad, he will probably tell you to hit him harder next time.’  
He earns a slight yet hearty chuckle from those words. The guards do a double-take as Killglave enters alongside Amara. They greet him with curt nods of respect, but snap off sharp salutes to the Princess. Their acknowledgement of Addenus doesn’t go unnoticed.  
‘They know you here?’  
‘Like I said, family friend.’ His chest puffs out in pride. ‘Trained alongside your pap I did.’  
‘Strange…’  
‘What is?’  
‘Why does he never talk about you?’  
‘Well, I imagine because--’  
‘Addenus?’ Amara’s mother rushes down the corridor.  
He feels himself grimace as the Queen descends the stairs, crossing her arms. ‘Your Majesty.’  
‘You may dispense with the formalities and get to the point. I would like to know why you’re here.’  
Addenus heaves a sigh. He knows full well her waspish reception is warranted and maybe deserved, but it still is irksome.  
‘As you wish, Your Ma--Narcissa.’  
‘Hello again, mother,’ Amara says sheepishly.  
‘I see you two have been getting reacquainted. What nonsense have you been filling her head with?’  
Addenus holds up his hands in surrender. ‘I have barely spoken two words to the young Princess. I just defended her honour against your charming brother.’  
‘Theodrin? Oh what did he do now? Nevermind, it's you we are dealing with, not him.’  
‘As you wish. Is there somewhere we may speak? It's a matter of urgency.’  
Narcissa seems to look past Addenus, a weary look in her eyes. ‘Very well. Come.’  
Addenus follows the royal women deeper into the castle. Glancing around as they walk, he notices it hardly has changed since his last visit, if perhaps more guarded.  
The walls still hold the same lofty windows allowing the sunlight to filter in only interrupted by the coloured shards arranged to make tasteful glass art depicting scenes of fae like creatures dancing through enchanting woodlands, or fearsome dragons bearing down on simple hamlets, and one he hadn’t seen during his previous visit; a golden-haired Queen reigning over the masses, leaving little wonder as to the subject of this piece.  
A wooden door gilded with gold leads into a large square-room with three artless windows hiding shyly behind white lace curtains. A square table that looks like it has been carved from a chunk of marble sits in the middle, a crisp and immaculately clean white tablecloth covering most of it. In the northernmost wall a hearth crackles merrily, lending a cosy atmosphere to the luxurious room. They barely take their seats--Narcissa at the head and Addenus and Amara to her right and left respectively, before a dainty elven servant with caramel hair and hazelnut eyes approaches holding a tray laden with a teapot inscribed with a pretty floral arrangement of lilac flowers, placing a matching teacup in front of each of them. Addenus gives the girl a wink as she pours a dark and bitter-smelling liquid into his mug. He scrunches his nose as he scrutinises the strange drink in front of him.  
‘Narcissa, what is this?’  
‘A new elven drink made from crushed beans. Coffee, or cofwah in your tongue.’  
Addenus takes a tentative sip and has to battle urge to spew it back into his cup.  
‘An acquired taste, I admit.’ She places two cubes of sugar in his mug and a drop of milk. Tentacles of the pale liquid unfurl and swirl inside his mug until its entire contents are a uniform dark tan colour. ‘Here. This is how children usually take it. Maybe a bit more appeasing to your unrefined palate.’  
He ignores the insult as he takes another sip, and admits there are truth to her words. The acrid bitter taste is nicely offset by the sweetness of the sugar. Still not to his particular tastes.  
‘You elves and your strange foods.’ He shakes his head and places the cup back on its saucer. ‘Still there is a reason I came here...ideally Alestir should be here but…’  
‘Whatever you tell to me I will pass on to him.’ Narcissa’s eyes drift over to the young Princess sat waiting patiently. ‘Amara, you should run along and play now.’  
‘No, she should stay. This matter concerns her too.’  
‘Very well.’  
Amara looks visibly confused and worried, but remains silently seated, drinking her cofwah with more tolerance than him.  
Addenus’s reassuring smile falters as he presses forward. ‘Jedrek, head of our Order has been noticing an usual increase in activity. More beasts stalking this forests around your lands. He was hoping we could rely on the capital to fill our barracks.’  
Narcissa places her cup aside. ‘If it’s forces you want, you shall have. How many men do you need?’  
‘It’s not just a matter of numbers, Your Majesty. We require more hunters, hunters of quality. Hunters sworn to protect the lands of Evermeet.’  
The colour drains from Narcissa’s face as she hisses out the monosyllable answer he expected. ‘No.’  
‘Your Majesty--’  
‘You can have soldiers, mounts, arms, gold, whatever you want! But the price you are asking of me is too great.’  
‘A lot is at stake here, Your Grace.’  
Narcissa scoffs as she absconds her seat. ‘I realise that. My daughter for one, apparently.’  
‘Mother?’ Amara’s brow creases as she watches her mother pace.  
‘It’s ok, Amara. You’re not going anywhere.’  
‘Narcissa, please.’ He is standing now too, beseeching the bereaving mother. ‘Sanguine has spoken.’  
‘I...I’m not sure I understand,’ Amara says. She suddenly looks very small, more so than usual.  
Narcissa kneels down next to her. ‘It’s ok, my sweet. There is nothing to understand. I’m sure Addenus misspoke.’  
‘You have no son, so Sanguine calls for your daughter.’  
‘Daughters rule, not fight,’ Narcissa whispers with her eyes closed, like she is uttering a mantra to whatever Gods may be listening.  
‘I’m afraid Amara must do both. Time is of the essence. She must leave with me today.’  
‘No! She cannot! I will not allow it!’  
‘And I cannot ignore the danger we face. Sanguine’s new champion must rise.’ He steps closer to Narcissa, so his words are not heard by the Princess. ‘I will not speak of the evils we are facing for so very grave they are. Normal hunters who slay these creatures don’t do so indefinitely. Only someone of your blood can do it. You know. You remember when Theodrin was taken.’  
Narcissa steps away, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘I am Queen! My word here is law! And I am telling you no.’  
‘Have I no say?’ The dignified young Princess faces them with defiance and more wisdom than he expected someone of her age to possess. ‘The two of you stand there bickering about my future as if I have no choice!’  
Narcissa smiles, but on her tired face it looks false. ‘Of course. I am sorry, my child. Say your piece.’  
With a deep breath she looks at Addenus. ‘There is no mistake. This...Sanguine wants me?’  
Addenus nods. ‘Yes, Princess. Just as he called upon your Uncle to serve many years earlier.’  
‘Then I will go with you.’  
Narcissa lunges forward, grasping at her daughters shoulders with horrified desperation. ‘Amara no! You can’t, you musn’t! Your destiny is to rule.’  
‘But...isn’t it our duty as rulers to protect?’  
‘Your daughter is wise and brave...you should be proud,’ Addenus says humbly, as though his feeble compliment might soften the blow.  
Narcissa fixes him with a withering gaze. The expression ‘if looks could kill’ doesn’t do the danger in her eyes justice. ‘Oh, spare me! This is your doing, filling her head with fairy tales about adventuring and monsters and prophecies.’  
‘You know very well, Your Grace, they are not fairy-tales. You’ve known this day would be coming for some time.’  
Narcissa’s countenance softens. Her entire body seems to slacken, as though the anger has drained, leaving only resignation. ‘Yes...it just came a lot sooner than I expected. Too soon.’  
‘My mind is made up, mother.’  
Narcissa’s head sinks into her hands in despair. Her shoulders shake as she silently sobs. Amaranthe steps forward and places a hand on her arm.  
‘Please don’t cry, mother.’ The words catch in her throat. Narcissa pulls her into a tight embrace.  
Addenus turns away as the two women embrace. He feels as though he is an intruder peering in on a private moment. They share whispers as they hug. Addenus can’t make out the words, nor does he attempt to do so. Narcissa trails a hand down her daughter's cheek as they break apart, both of them now crying.  
‘If you ever change your mind, Amara...’  
‘Yes, mother.’  
‘You’ll write, won’t you?’  
‘Of course, mother.’  
‘Should I wait outside?’ Addenus asks, preparing to leave.  
‘No. I’m coming now.’  
‘Not until you’ve at least said farewell to your father, there’s also Lavenda, the kitchen cook, your handmaiden Iris, oh and the Bovine girls will miss you terribly--’  
‘Mother.’  
Narcissa silences.  
‘I will come home, one day. I have to fight and rule, remember?’  
She sniffs wetly. ‘Yes. of course. I apologise, it’s just... I’ll see you both out.’  
Addenus silently leads the trio, dimly aware of the path that leads to the entrance hall. It is there, they meet Alestir, fresh from training judging from the sheen of sweat on his skin and the dented chestplate he still wears.  
‘Addenus, you old bastard!’ He claps him on the shoulder fondly. ‘I heard you might be visiting soon, but--’  
Alestir trails off as he reads the tension between the solemn trio, and the evident sadness in his daughter and wife’s expressions. ‘What...what happened?’  
‘Sanguine.’  
The single word pulls all the mirth from Alestir. He knows the weight that name holds. He knows this day was inevitable, same as Narcissa.  
‘I...I see. Addenus, would you mind giving us a moment?’  
‘Oh, no, certainly.’ Addenus excuses himself out into the sprawling courtyard. He squints up at the sky. The sun is still high...good, they might make it to the Red Rivers Crossing by morning.  
An eternity passes before the Princess emerges followed by her mother. She is no longer crying, but he can tell her mood has not much improved by her hunched posture and clear reluctance to meet his eye. She is dressed more appropriately for travelling, a simple silken blouse tucked into the waistband of dark brown pants, interrupted just below the knee by black riding boots masked beneath sturdy yet flexible black greaves. A forest green cloak clasps at the front with a brooch in the shape of a dragons head. Two hands covered in fingerless leather arm braces clutch at the straps of a well-stocked backpack.  
‘Shall we?’ Her voice sounds husky, as though she just came out of a bout of crying.  
‘Glad to see your prepared, Princess. Said all your goodbyes?’  
‘More or less.’  
‘Then aye, we’ll set off.’  
‘Go ahead, Amara. I would speak with Addenus for just a moment.’  
Amara nods. ‘I’ll prepare the horses.’ She scarpers off towards the stables.  
‘Mounts? That’s generous. Thank you, Your Majesty.’  
‘I will not have my daughter flatfoot the thousands of leagues between here and The House of the Profane. But this is not what I wished to discuss with you. I want your solemn vow my daughter will return, unscathed, her kind spirit unbroken. Can you promise me that?’  
‘You know I can’t promise you that, Your Majesty.’  
‘Can't or won't?’  
‘I can promise to try. But that is all.’  
A silent moment lingers in the air. The winds picks up, sending the fallen leaves scattering across the stone. The light of day dims as the wind drives storm clouds up ahead.  
‘The weather is turning unfavourable. I best be off.’  
‘Even with all said and done, Addenus, I wish you fair travels.’  
Addenus nods. ‘I appreciate it, Your Majesty.’  
He bows, and joins the Princess at the stables. He is surprised to see two mounts both saddles and calmly tethered to the stable, the young Princess herself patting and whispering to a white mare.  
‘The chestnut one is yours,’ she says, placing a foot in the stirrup of her mount. ‘Eldreda.’  
‘Eldreda.’ Addenus repeats. ‘Thank you, Princess. A fine steed.’  
Addenus swings himself up on the saddle with more ease and grace than the significantly smaller Amaranthe managed, but she looks confident in the saddle.  
‘Lead on.’  
With a flick of the reigns, they gallop out of the palace's courtyard.


	3. Amaranthus

Even during summer, when the sun dips behind the horizon, the air grows chilly. One would catch their death of the cold if unprepared. Indeed, even festooned under her cloak with a bedroll and a blanket, Amara shivers, finding sleep hard to come by as the cold assaults her body.  
‘Can we please have a fire?’ she asks through chattering teeth.  
Addenus shakes his head, looking at complete ease with the unfortunate weather. ‘Draw too much attention. This place is called the Red Rivers Crossing for a reason.’  
Amara sits up but remains in her cocoon. ‘What reason?’  
‘Monsters.’  
The wind picks up. The icy breeze caresses Amara’s cheek. She cringes against the unwelcome sensation.   
‘You’re not going to elaborate?’   
‘Wouldn’t wish to sabotage your sleep, Princess. And you will need it.’  
‘I think it's safe to say its already sabotaged.’  
‘Just a jest, Princess-but make no mistake, the woods are dangerous. Come with me.’  
Intrigued, she follows Addenus further into the woods. Though human, he has no trouble navigating the smothering dark forest, dodging trees and ducking underneath low-hanging branches with grace. Before long, she hears the unmistakable sound of running water. Soon they come into a clearing. A large body of water, some 50 feet across, has cut a path through the forests. It isn’t until she stands at the edge of the bank she sees the deep crimson hue of its currents.  
‘Red...red water? How?’   
Addenus stoops down to pick up on of the plants growing along the rivers bank. He holds up what looks like a flower--numberous small petals folded on one another leading upwards to form a stalk, in a deep burgundy hue.  
‘You know what this is?’  
She cocks her head. Familiarity rushes through her, and a name popis into her mind. ‘Amaranthus…’  
He twirls the stem between his fingers. ‘ “Undying…” safe to say the river is picking up the pigment from these flowers growing around it. Since the amaranthus’ never wilts it has a constant supply of them...the river always runs red.  
‘ “Undying” ‘, Amara repeats to herself. ‘Nothing is undying.’  
‘The Amaranthus is. And maybe the Princess named after it will be.’ Addenus offers her the flower with a small smile.   
‘I doubt that very much.’ she mutters, but she takes it all the same.  
‘Oh, you will die given time. But your name, and your deeds and influence can survive past the grave. It all depends on how you act in life.’  
She stares into the flowers depths. Trying to imagine what kind of legacy she would leave on the world. For a moment, she thinks she sees something--a flash, two people, boy and girl the exact opposites of each other, like fire and ice. It vanishes as Addenus claps her on the shoulder.   
‘Let’s get back to camp. You should rest.’  
Addenus starts a fire, leaving her comfortable enough for sleep to find her.

When Amara wakes, she wakes alone in a strange unfamiliar place. Instead of finding herself beneath star and leaf, she finds herself surrounded by stone walls. The room is entirely empty, and dark. Even her eyes find it difficult to penetrate the yawning abyss ahead of her.   
Then, a light, flickering and blood red. It swallows the dark around it, allowing her to see what lies ahead of her. A single sword of a dark grey hue and a finely made handle. Metal twisting upwards around the dark red gems running up along the handle to the hilt. Another, far larger gem makes up its pommel. Small runes occasional flash in red along the blade.  
‘You answered my call…’ Amara starts when she hears the voice. It is not a single voice, but multiple, one dark and raspy, the other light and alluring, like two sides of the same coin.   
‘Sanguine?’  
‘Your family and I have been one for generations. It is your turn to shoulder the burden...but are you ready?’  
‘What do I have to do?’ she asks.  
A low chuckle resides in her head. ‘First, survive. Then, we shall see.’  
A hand of shadow clasps around the handle and swings the sword, testing its weight and balance. From out the darkness steps a woman clad in fine armour that almost matches the design of Sanguine--dark, but glowing with runes and a single red gem in the centre of the chestplate. The woman has long black locks, violet eyes and tapered ears. Amara gasps as she beholds the form that appears to be an older, stronger version of her, wreathed in a red and black miasma.   
She holds Sanguine to the exposed skin of her left forearm. Amara cringes as the blade is drawn down, cutting through the skin. Instead of dripping down to the ground, the blood coalesces on the blade, manifesting as brightly burning flames that flicker a deep crimson colour.  
Amara stumbles back in horror, tripping over her own feet. She crawls backwards, her palms scraping against the rough stone as she drags herself away. The wrath rushes forward, and plunges Sanguine deep into her heart. She feels the blade cut through skin, flesh, bone and eventually tissue. The flames lick at her sundered skin, cauterizing the wound as it cuts. The blazing inferno seems to surround her in flame, drawing out of her a feral scream as she lays in the gripes of agony so unreal she scarcely believes it.   
When she jolts awake at the camp she is still screaming, until the pain subsides. Desperately, she claws at the fastening of her shirt, fingernail scrabbling at the skin between her breasts in her panicked struggle. There is no sign of scar or injury. Her body sags in relief, but her mind is still fraught with worry and her heart doesn't slow it's chaotic rhythm. She meets the gaze of Addenus the other sight of the campfire, as he attempts to stoke the embers back into life. He doesn’t seem surprised or curious at her frightful outburst, instead regarding her with sympathy.   
‘You met Sanguine?’  
She nods. The fire springs back to life. Amara jumps back, remembering all too well the agonising heat as it consumed her heart.  
‘He can be...intense.’ Addenus winces.  
‘It wasn't just him…’ Amara swallows. ‘There was...someone else.’  
‘Someone else...who?’  
‘Myself, I think. Only much older. Stronger. I was wielding Sanguine. I...she stabbed me…’  
Her fingers trailed the skin between her breasts, where the blade cut. Addenus crinkles his brow in confusion with a hum as he considers her words.  
‘Curious. I don’t believe anyone else had had such a dream. It has always just been Sanguine, and Sanguine alone. You say this...other you wielded Sanguine?’  
Amara nods. ‘Stabbed me straight through my heart.’  
‘Curious indeed. We should head for the Order post-haste. Perhaps we can ask him directly when we get there.’ Addenus rummages through his bag and tosses her an apple. ‘Here. Break your fast and walk. I would like to get there today.’ 

Amara’s entire body quakes with exhaustion as they mount the final step leading up the order. Standing tall and proud at the apex of the mountain is a square building hewn from obsidian stone. Braziers flank the large metal doorway which bears a sword pointing groundward wreathed in flames. There are no visible handles or door knockers on its surface.  
Addenus steps forward, producing a small dagger. Her slices open his palm, and places it on the the metal. The blood stretched across the surface, coating the carving of the flaming blade. With a grinding groan, a seam appears in the middle of the door. The two halves part and swing inwards into the dim lit exterior. They close and reseal behind them, erasing all evidence of the split. Amara turns to face the interior. High windows allow what little light is left of the day to filter through, bathing the stone interior in the hues of sundown. The entryway splits into three identical corridors, two to either side and one straight ahead. Addenus leads Amara down the centre path, ending at a door which looks like an exact replica of the entrance, only on a smaller scale bearing less extravagance and an actual handle. Addenus raises his fist and raps on the door thrice.   
‘Enter,’ a stiff and nasally voice responds.   
Addenus opens the door, revealing a large study room that is the picture of organised chaos. Piles of books and parchments are stacked on nearly every available surface, some even on the floor. Nearly every wall is covered by full bookcases, or well stocked cabinets of weapons and several pieces of well-kempt armour, or shelves littered with vials, bottles, more paper, small framed portraits and other suck knick-knacks.   
Sat in a plush armchair behind a huge mahogany desk sits a middle-aged elf, his hair more salt than pepper, his wrinkled face devoid of any sort of facial hair. Dressed in a black coat with shiny gold buttons, and writing unimpeded by the large and numerous rings on his fingers, he looks every bit the noble. He even carries himself with grace as he sets aside the quill to regard the both of them.   
‘Addenus...Mistress Darcelle, a pleasure. Your uncle is a formidable fighter. I hope you also have the skill, but with a touch more self-reflection.’ His thin lips stretch into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Jedrek Blackclaw, at your service. Well, now you have arrived we should set you up with accommodations...I trust it has been a pleasant journey?’  
‘Uneventful, but tiring,’ Addenus says.  
Amara, now in a strange place with exciting yet terrifying prospects, finds herself quite awake.   
‘Of course. Show the young Lady to the quarters, then you may retire. We’ll start with the induction in the morrow.’  
Addenus stuffly bows. ‘Of course. Come on, young Princess.’  
‘Induction?’ Amara asks fearfully as she follows him through the halls, back to the entrance then steering to the right.  
‘It’s nothing. Just a lot of talking, and swearing oaths. Boring, political stuff. The exciting stuff happens later. Training, fighting...you’ll love it.’  
Amara is less convinced, but she deigns not to argue. They pass many doors. She hears clashings of steel behind one, others voices talking and laughing, but she sees no one else out and about.  
Eventually, they stop at a single door, in a private alcove away from the activity she heard earlier.   
‘This is you. The Darcelle room your Uncle was using.’  
‘Am I ok to use this?’  
‘Of course. We figured you’d like some taste of home for your stay. Sleep tight.’  
Amaranthe tiptoes into the room--a moderately sized chamber quaintly furnished with a simple queen-sized bed, an armoire, nightstand and a window seat, a shelf on either side holding a handful of books.   
Amara kneels on the window seat, reaching for the shelf, and adds her dog-eared copy Of Monsters and Men to the meagre selection. The book barely reaches the surface before she pulls it into her lap and opens it. The lettering on the pages is barely legible, but enough so to rouse her memories of reading it through countless times. She recounts the tale in perfect accuracy, until nodding off where she sits. The book falls to the floor, but doesn’t reach it. It remains suspended an inch off the ground. Curious, Amara reaches for it. The pages turn as though caught in the ire of a gale, stopping at the midpoint of the book. An illustration depicts a helmeted knight holding up a familiar sword--one with a dark blade and jewel encrusted hilt. She turns the page. No words, but a drawing of a dark stormy landed shrouded in mist. The mist parts, revealing a dark castle that fills her gut with dread. From behind the foreboding spires, a monster emerges: sickly green tentacles wrapping around the building.  
The book falls from her grasp she she retreats from it. It lands with a loud thump.   
The sound starts her. She wakes on the window seat to complete darkness. Her eyes eventually adjust to the absence of light.   
Amara retrieves the book which fell from her grasp. No strange, moving illustrations. Just words. She slots it onto one of the shelves and walks to bed. She passes by a window as she does, and spots a figures from the corner of her eye, Looking down to the ground below, she sees her Uncle in passionate talks with Jedrek.  
Jedrek strikes a blow to her Uncles face. Amara flinches as she hears the sound from her window. He staggers, holding a hand to his bloodied mouth. One foot is put forward, as though he intends to retaliate, but he freezes. Then his head angles upwards.   
With a gasp Amara jumps to the side out of the pane, back against the stone. She wonders if she moved quickly enough. Peeking around the corner, there is nothing but an empty courtyard.


	4. Not a Hero

‘What do you mean gone?’ Jedrek roars.

 

Addenus winces. ‘I don’t know what to tell you, sir. Only that when I went to attend the shrine this morning, Sanguine was...absent.’

 

Jedrek’s fists slam into the table. Amaranthe jumps at the sudden explosion of anger. The veins around his eyes seem to glow a bright red. His eyes snap to Amara. In an instant he stands before her, fingers digging painfully into her shoulder.

‘You...you arrived only yesterday...what do you know? Who are you working for?’

Her voice fails her. Under the terrifying scrutiny of the Head Hunter she only manages a petrified squeak.

Jedrek steps back, releasing her from his grip. ‘No...not you. Your Uncle…’ He looks to Addenus. ‘Send out men now. Drag Theodrin back here--alive. I have questions for him.’

Addenus bows and takes his leave. When the door swings shut Jedrek leans on his hands on his desk, his stooping shoulders bearing an invisible, immeasurable weight. Amaranthe stands silently, feeling awkward and foolish, unsure what to do with herself.

‘You understand what has transpired, yes?’ Jedrek asks after a small eternity of silence.

‘Something was stolen?’ she asks meekly.

‘Not just any mere trinket, or bauble. The founder of our order, the one we serve--Sanguine. Is simply gone. I do not believe he left of his own volition. He was taken from us. Your Uncle is our prime suspect. I know you witnessed our argument last night. He had to have taken it as retribution.’

‘He wouldn’t…’ Amara realises how foolish the words are after they part her lips. ‘What can I do to help?’

‘For now, stay here. Addenus will set more seasoned hunters on his trail. Get some breakfast, then Addenus will start your training. Hopefully Sanguine’s power can still reach you. If you can connect with him, you might even be able to get a location.’

Amara shifts were she is stood, already starting to feel the burden of Jedrek’s expectations.

‘Dismissed!

‘Close your eyes! Focus…’ Addenus repeats for the dozenth time.

Amara rises to her feet with a frustrated sigh. ‘It’s no good! I can’t sense, see, hear anything!’

Addenus runs a hand through his hair also for the dozenth time. Nearly all of his hair now stand to attention. ‘We need to get Sanguine back and fast.’

‘ _Not...here…_ ’

‘Wait what did you say?’ Amaranthe asks.

‘We need to get the sword back?’

‘No after that.’

He fixes her with a funny look. ‘I never said anything else.’

‘I thought I heard a whisper…’

‘ _Not...Theodrin…_ ’

‘I heard it again...Sanguine?’

Addenus is in front of her at an instant, shaking her by the shoulders. ‘Well, what is he saying?’

‘Not here, not Theodrin.’

‘Wait...not Theodrin. Then who?’

Amara listens intently, waiting for more words.

‘WHO!?’

She shushes him. But there are no more words. Her shoulders sag as disappointment sets in. ‘I don’t know. He’s no longer speaking with me.’

‘Damn it all to hell! Well, at least we know we can still communicate. For whatever small comfort that brings. For now, we need to work on strengthening your body.’ Addenus bends her arm upwards at the elbow and feels the muscles of her bicep, or the lack thereof. ‘I have my work cut-out for me.’

Days bleed into weeks and eventually months as she relentlessly trains day after day. Her body sore and exhausted after being pushed past its limits barely manages to get her to bed every night, where she collapses onto it, fully clothed.

Amaranthe comes to meet other members of the order, but she never finds herself growing close to any of them. They speak to her in awed tones, breathlessly announcing their excitement at seeing her unlock her potential. She questioned this choice of words every time she witnessed them, but is always told to just “wait and see”.

Amaranthe sends letters to her parents, bending the truth regarding her strenuous training and altogether omitting her Uncle’s antics. She casually asked if her mother has come into contact with him recently, but in typical fashion her mother answered Amaranthe's question with another question she dare not answer: "why"?

One morning, as she eagerly rips open a letter, the words written give her much surprise.

‘Happy...birthday?’ she whispers.

Amara rushes over to the window and thrusts it open. Indeed, outside the snow melts, giving way to the first flowers of spring. A handful of sparrows take flight, drawing her attention skyward to where the sun sits resplendent in a flawlessly blue sky. The morning air still carries the bite of chill to it, but there is no denying spring is here--and the anniversary of birth.

She allows herself some time by the window, enjoying the view and air, even as it burns her lung with each breath. Eventually, duty knocks on her door with a gruff demand for her to open.

‘Happy birthday, little Princess.’ Addenus holds a leather scabbard attached to a matching belt out to her.

Wordlessly, Amara takes the proffered sheath. She clasps the hilt of the sword and draws it, seeing real, sharp steel. She sucks in a breath as she realises she holds a real weapon in her hands. One for killing and protecting, not just training.

‘This…’ Words fail her. Awestruck, she steps back and gives the blade a few test swings, down from the shoulder, across horizontally. Perfect balance and weight.

‘You’ve made fantastic progress in the time you’ve been here. Figured it was time you had your own blade. Which moves us on to your next phase of training.’ Addenus’s expression holds an uncharacteristic grimace.

‘Which is?’

‘Its better I show you. Come.’

They return to the same training room but she feels strange, her mind firing constant worries and worst case scenarios. When they reach the room, they stop. Addenus turns to face her.

‘What I ask of you today may be your limit. But it is who we are, and what we do. So please, just trust me, and do I as do.’

Addenus pulls his battleaxe from his holster on his back, and draws the head of it across his palm, opening a large and bloody gash. Amara watches in rapt horror as the blood coalesces across the metal. Ghostly green energy surroundings it, small black insects swirling around in its depths. She smells the sour stench of decay rise.

‘Your turn.’

‘I--I can’t,’ she stammers, her eyes fixed on the thin line of blood weeping from his hand.

‘Yes you can. Thousand of men and women have done it, some younger than you. Some even more sheltered, if you can believe it. You’ll get used to the pain.’

Amara unsheathes the blade and holds it ready, but doesn’t find the courage to draw her own blood. It shakes in her clammy grip. With a cry she pushes the blade down.

There is pain, so much pain, like the burning flames of hellfire torment the sundered skin. Blood rushes down both sides of her wrist. The blade clatters onto the ground as she cradles her wounded arm.

‘Again,’ he orders.

Amara blinks at him through unshed tears. ‘What…?’

‘Your blood is supposed to manifest as a certain element around your weapon. You need to retry. This time don’t focus on the pain or your fear. Focus on your motivation. What drives you? Anger? A desire to be a hero? Vanity?’

‘I--I don’t…’

‘Why are you here?’

‘Because I was told I had to be.’

‘Bullshit! You defied your mother and your sovereign to come here. Why?’ Silence lingers following his question, except for the fading drip of her own blood. ‘Think!’

‘I wanted more…’ the words slip autonomously from her mouth, but when she hears them she knows it to be the truth.

‘More?’

‘I wanted to do more than sit on a throne and dictate on how the lands should be ruled, on how people should live while others risk their life to keep my people. That’s not the type of Queen I want to be.’

‘You want to be a hero? Is that it?’

‘Not a hero.’

‘Then what?’

Amara’s arm still twinges with pain as she reaches for her blade. Holding the handle, she cuts a line across her forearm, and watches with pride and rapt fascination as the blade becomes endowed with crimson flames. ‘A protector.’


	5. Oh Uncle, My Uncle

In the months following, Amaranthe grows to be quite the adept swordswoman. Addenus started her off with simple blocking exercises, announcing where he intended to strike her but sometimes swinging in a different direction. The first few times he caught her off guard, but she slowly learned to watch the blade with her eyes and react accordingly.   
Despite this, she would return to her quarters with bruises. The general weapon training is interspersed with focusing on strengthening the intensity and longevity of her rite. Though she had succeeded in summoning forth the flames, she has yet to master maintaining it with any degree of destructive force.   
‘You’re doing well, lass,’ Addenus says one day as they break from training.  
Amara spawls on the floor, exhaustion weighing down her limbs. ‘Not so sure about that.’ Her words are a fatigued wheeze.  
‘You shouldn't sell yourself short. Besides, there is one thing we have yet to cover in your training.'  
Amaranthe forces herself upright to look at her weapons master.  
‘The one thing only members of your family sworn to the order can do.’  
‘Which is?’  
‘Magic.’  
Amaranthe tries to measure Addenus’s expression for any signs of mockery. But his face is set and serious. ‘My family aren’t sorcerers.’  
‘No, they’re not. Not as you understand them. Their magic is not inborn, nor acquired through extensive studying. It is bought.’  
‘What just like my flaming sword?’ she mutters as she drops prone again.   
Addenus strides over to her and kicks her in the ribs. Not hard enough to seriously wound but it knocks the wind from her sails and makes her sit upright.  
‘Hey!’   
‘It wouldn’t hurt you to show some deference. Get up. If you have enough energy to flap your gums you have enough to go another round.’   
Amaranthe huffs but rolls to her side to retrieve her weapon and turns to face Addenus. He doesn’t announce he is about to strike, but charges forth with a powerful downwards swing. Amara barely raises to blade in time to meet it. The loud reverberating clang painfully pierces her eardrums.   
‘Wait, you didn’t say--’  
‘You think your opponents are going to announce when they are going to attack, hmm? Or where?’ He strikes again. She failed to block it, and the solid, blunt edge strokes her left arm painfully, adding a bruise adjacent to the cut.   
He strikes her again as she stands stunned. Addenus retreats, spreading his arms.   
‘Don’t make this too easy.’   
She charges forth with a cry, blade held over her head. She swings down. The blade cuts through air and strikes the floor as Addenus side steps around the blow. He hooks his foot over her ankle and trips her onto the ground. Her chin connects painfully with the hard stone, setting her teeth chattering. Blood drifts down from her broken skin as she stands.   
‘Gods girl, I didn’t think you would still be making such rookie mistakes. Come now, you can do better.’  
His words sting as they have the bite of truth to them. She steels herself, eyes fixating on his blade but also his feet, which would indicate his movements. To the right.   
Amara ducks low, tucks and rolls and pokes him in the back, hard enough to make his stumble. She smiles a little as the grown man nearly twice her height nearly topples over. She hears him rasp out a chortle.   
‘Very good. Glad to see you can be quick on your feet.’  
Amara wipes away the blood on her chin and prepares herself. Their next sparring session has only just started. 

 

A distant rumbling rouses Amaranthe from her deep, dreamless sleep. She barely stirs, rolling over and chalking it up to her imagination. That is until a second sounds out, this time closer. She thinks she hears distant voice calling out. Then follows the alarm, a ringing toll. She absconds her bed, stumbling into her boots and grabbing her weapon.   
Three hunters nearly bowl her over as she exits the room. They skid to a stop in front of her. One, a man with dark hair and a salt and pepper beard, grabs her arm. ‘With us, Princess. We need to get you to safety.'  
'What is happening?’ she mumbles, her voice still raspy and thick from sleep.   
‘Your Uncle. But he is not alone.’  
Amara allows herself to be dragged along the corridor. She hears distant yelling and fighting from the off-shooting passageways and sees their struggling shadows thrown against the wall by the torchlight. But they don’t stop to help anyone. They keep pushing forward towards the entrance.   
Her Uncle steps around the corner, blocking their way. Amaranthe goes to stop but she is dragged along, towards him.  
‘What--’  
‘Here she is, my Lord.’ The throw her down onto the ground at his feet. ‘Managed to snatch her before she left her room.’  
The tip of Sanguine is level with her eye, held fast in his grip. He pushes the point under her chin, an inch away from her throat. He pushes the blade up, forcing her to angle her face skyward to look her Uncle in the eye as he cruelly sneers down upon her.   
‘I still haven’t forgotten that you broke my nose, bastard. I really should return the favour.’  
He drives the heel of his boot right onto the tip of her nose. Cartilage gives way to the bones snapping inwards with an explosion of blood and an overwhelming ache that summons water to her eyes. Her scream is muffled by the hands that rise up to clamp over the injury continually gushing crimson.  
‘Get her up,’ he orders. ‘I’d like to be away before we’re discovered.’  
Hands seize her by the arm, and Amara is heaved over someone’s shoulder. She sees the handle of an axe before her. By the time she has withdrew it from the clasp securing it to his back, they only just think to drop her and draw their weapons. She buries the axehead into the crown of the man that lifted her. It shudders as it passes through brittle bone to the gelatinous brain held within. Crimson blood and pink jelly gruesomely weep out from beneath the axehead. Amaranthe steps back and a fell silence swoops down upon the group.   
‘Don’t just stand there!’ Theodrin barks.   
Amara is spurred into action, wrenching the axe from the man's head. She performs an about-face, a fraction too late and off-kilter, but it saves her life as the blade nicks the side of her throat rather than slicing it completely open. The momentum of the axe nearly spins her completely on the heel, and it cuts right through the shirt and the skin of the second mans stomach. Intestines wriggle out from the opening of his clothes, glistening sickeningly in the light. He doesn’t die immediately, instead falls to his backside and tries in vain to shove his guts back in with a strangled scream of pain and fear.   
Amara faces away, coughing and retching as she clumsily dodges backwards from two blades. But she evades one to fall into another that skewers her in her shoulder joint. The axe falls from her grasp as the lance of sharp pain pries open her tense fingers. She tumbles back, right over the man she disemboweled. She screams in horror as her hand plunges into the wet and slimy interior of his torso. He hollers and cries in pain which diminish into sobs when she extracts her hand now slick with blood and little bits of viscera.   
Theodrin thrusts aside the last hunter, who is silently watching the spectacle in horror. ‘I’ll take care of this my damn self.’   
She makes a break for the axe, but a hand seizes a fistful of her hair and wrenches her back. Theodrin smashes her head against the wall. Her vision whites out for one second before colour slowly returns in speckles. She barely has time to recover when her back hits the solid ground, forcing the air from her lungs.   
The tip of Sanguine presses against her chest, stopping her from getting to her feet. Though she glares up at him, she can’t stop the trembling of her lips as she sees the desire for her death in his eyes.  
‘Stay right where you are,’ he snarls. ‘It’s where you belong.’  
Theodrin directs his attention at the last surviving man. ‘Bind her hands.’  
He scrambles forward, retrieving a length of rope from his pack. Voice draw nearer. Theodrin and his lacky both pause.  
Two dozen hunters suddenly storm down the halls, Addenus at the head of them. Some look worse for wear, bearing bleeding injuries and bruises. Addenus himself speaks through a busted lip as he stares Theodrin down.  
‘It’s over. Relinquish Sanguine to us, and get the fuck out of our order.’  
Theodrin remain silent. Amaranthe can almost see the cogs turning in his head as he weighed the situation. He is a proud man, one not fond of admitting defeat. But he knows when he has lost.   
Theodrin grabs the other man and hurls him at the hunters then making a break for it down the corridor. Addenus throws the man aside and gives chase. Scores of feet rush around Amara as they chase the renegade hunter through the hallways. A few Amara scarcely recognises tie up Theodrin’s ally.   
A young elven man around 5 years Amara’s senior kneels next to her to examine her shoulder wound. She winces as his fingers tear open the fabric of her shirt to unveil it.  
‘Alright, let’s get you to the infirmary,’ he says, helping pull her to her feet.  
‘What about--’  
‘The others will catch him. He won’t leave here alive.’


	6. A Heavy Burden

In the wake of the invasion, the House of the Profane lies in tatters. Smashed windows, doors torn from their hinges, furniture fractured into kindling and possessions pilfered. Reaching underneath her bed, Amaranthe pulls out the lock-box of her personal effects. It remains whole and untouched, all of its contents still accounted for.  
With a sigh of relief she places it back into its hiding hole, not a moment too soon as a loud knock announces a presence.  
As soon as she opens the door a broom is shoved into her hands.   
‘You’re to help Aisha sweep,’ Addenus says gruffly.   
‘My uncle, is he—‘  
‘Gone. The trail dies. Like he vanished.’ Addenus sighs wearily. He rubs at his eyes, the skin beneath dusted with fatigue.  
Amaranthe’s body sags upon hearing his words. Her spiteful, cruel uncle runs through Evermeet unchecked, with perhaps the most powerful weapon of all in his wicked hands.  
‘It’s not for you to worry about. Worry about your work.’  
Amaranthe joins Aisha in sweeping the mess hall. A sun-elf with bronze skin and scruffy blonde hair, the hateful scowl marrs her otherwise fair features as she continually glares at Amaranthe. She ignores Aisha’s murderous stare’s, her mind preoccupied with Addenus’s defeated demeanour and the previous nights events.  
‘He came for you,’ she eventually snarls.  
‘Excuse me?’  
‘Your Uncle. He hates you. And that hatred cost good men and women their lives. And I got stuck on cleaning duty!’  
Amaranthe is shocked still and silent by the harsh words that strike deeper than any blade could.   
The girl shakes her head, tossing aside her broom. ‘Nothing to say?’  
She stands a few inches taller than Amaranthe, but she might as well have been a mountain as she blinks up at her, heart in her throat.  
‘I don’t--’  
The words are cut off as a fist connects with the side of her jaw. The side of her face alights with dull pain. Her jaw makes a soft click as she carefully opens and closes it.   
‘They died because of you!’ Amaranthe turns to face her, meeting eyes full of grief and blame. ‘He died because of--’  
‘Who?’  
Aisha tears away from the room, leaving blame and guilt in her wake. Amaranthe remains still for several moments, the ache in her jaw nothing compared to the pain in her heart. She resumes her work, the broom nearly splintering under the vice-tight grip of her hands.

 

Dusk returns, darkening the skies and draining the Order’s halls, including Amaranthe who immediately seeks the comfort and warmth of her bed. Laying face-down on the feather-down mattress, still fully dressed, she relishes the brief glimmer of comfort before the images of dead men float to the surface of her mind. Not just the sight of their eviscerated bodies, but the metallic stench of blood, and their cries of anguish…  
She barely makes it to the privy as her body emotions out her stomach. A small eternity drags by before the dry-retching ends. She collapses onto the cold wooden floor, fully exhausted, wiping away the moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes.   
Her mind wanders to the soldier, an often forgotten player on the stage of life. How they, in times of war, stain their steel with the blood of countless lives. How they return home, their consciousness unburdened and their sleep untroubled. Under what justifications can they scrub their mind of guilt, and be resolute in their actions? Is it a matter of numbers, desensitising themselves to the heavy burden of murder? Or can they simply write it off as an act of self-defence, on which they were left with little choice but to subdue their enemy to the indefinite sleep?  
Amaranthe’s young mind finds it hard to reconcile her actions quite so easily. She shuffles over to the writing desk. She starts and scraps three letters, all starting with some semblance of apology, or a plea for a balm to her troubled mind. In the end, it is a short letter, a greeting and simple apology for the time elapsed since her last. She takes care to omit the events of the previous night, though she doesn’t doubt the news would inevitable reach her mother's ears. Perhaps coming from Amaranthe herself might soften the blow of the tragedy, but the longer she could delay her mother knowing the better. She seals the envelope with wax before the notion of sleep flirts with her lashes, bidding her to rest her head upon her folded arms and into the cradle of a dreamless sleep.


End file.
